


We are a family, you and me

by amazingsantiago



Series: Missing Scenes Series [7]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humour, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingsantiago/pseuds/amazingsantiago
Summary: Jake and Amy central drabbles/one-shots based on every episode of Season 7
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Series: Missing Scenes Series [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1043156
Kudos: 45





	1. 7x06: Trying

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: This is a work of fiction, based on a fictional show. This does not represent my views on real police officers. I am disgusted with the systematic racism towards black people in policing in my own country and in the US. Black Lives Matter.

Her parents had eight kids. She has a million nieces and nephews and a million more cousins. Jake’s dad seemingly made babies in every major airline hub in North America. And yet, for some reason, this isn’t happening for them.

The first couple of months, they don’t think anything of it. Trying to make a baby is _fun_ and magical and neither of them are gonna complain about having more sex.

She consults the baby binder a little more as time goes on and her period arrives at the start of each month like clockwork. They throw out their favourite take out menus, start eating healthier and run together every morning before work.

They also buy a new couch and a family friendly mid-size sedan and the cutest baby Adidas Superstars she’s ever seen, because they’re convinced that they’ll be pregnant before they know it and Amy Santiago is nothing if not prepared.

They schedule sexy times and foreplay and fantasise about what their baby will be like in their post-sex haze.

When that doesn’t work, they try The Jake Way: a super sexy mission to rescue her husband from kidnappers ending in a super sexy Airbnb tryst.

Still, the pregnancy test comes back negative.

As the leaves turn from green to amber and the air cools, forcing Amy to get out their winter coats and turn their apartment heating up to high, she starts to worry. They’re doing everything right, they’re taking the vitamins, eating healthy, having sex all the time. There must be a reason why it isn’t working.

After watching an episode of _Friends_ on their new couch -- The One With The Fertility Test -- she decides to book them a doctor’s appointment.

“As a precaution,” she tells her husband when he furrows his brow in concern.

“Uh, OK, yeah, sure,” he agrees, pausing the episode.

She phones the doctor, books the first available appointment (Monday at 2.15 pm) and adds it to their joint calendar. “Snuggle with me?” She asks once he has accepted her invite.

“C’mere.” He pulls her into his arms and holds her tight as she cries into his shirt.

They don’t watch any more _Friends_. It hurts too much, seeing her favourite fictional couple going through the same heartbreak as them. They don’t watch much TV at all, not even _Die Hard_. The trailer for the new _Babies_ documentary starts playing as she flicks through Netflix one night while Jake is working late and she almost breaks the TV with the way she throws the remote across the room.

The doctor’s appointment rolls round and they’re both nervous as hell.

They booked the entire day off work as advised by the kind receptionist on the phone, who warned them that they would be extremely emotional both before and after. Booking the day off was an ordeal in itself when Terry wrongfully assumed they were getting a sonogram. There was a crushing feeling in Amy’s chest listening to her husband explain that _no, they’re not pregnant, not yet_.

Not yet.

They hold hands tightly as they wait for the doctor to call them in. Jake bounces his leg, Amy chews her lower lip, they both try not to cry when another couple walks in with a baby in one of those carriers that all the cool dads seem to wear. Jake’s been eyeing them up online for months. If John Legend can rock the baby carrier look, so can he.

“Why are they at the fertility clinic when they’ve already made one?” Amy mutters darkly.

The doctor says their names before Jake can respond.

He squeezes Amy’s hand as they follow the doctor to her room, a silent reminder that they’re in this together.

They have to explain the issue -- how long they’ve been trying, whether Amy has suffered any previous miscarriages, what their lifestyles are like. It’s a little embarrassing, going into the specifics of their sex life, but it’s all for a good cause. The best cause. Creating a new little life, a baby just like the dozens of pictures of success stories on the walls, Santiago-Peralta _stylez_.

“You’re doing everything I would usually recommend to my patients,” she says and despite herself, Amy’s lips twitch into a tiny smile. She knew her research was thorough. “Sometimes your body takes time to adjust to coming off birth control or reacts badly to stress. Sometimes it just takes a while and there’s no real reason why. We’ll take some samples from you both, but my advice is to just keep doing what you are.”

The tests come back negative, which should be good news, but it just sucks even more.

If there’s nothing wrong with them then _why can’t they get pregnant?!_

As they grapple with their situation, it seems like everyone around them is getting pregnant. Celebrities on Instagram. A couple of Amy’s uniformed officers. Santiago cousin after Santiago cousin. Hitchcock and that Russian chick with the missing tooth.

She tries to be happy for them, she really does, the façade crumbling as soon as she’s alone with Jake and sobbing into his shirt again.

They get hammered at Hitchcock’s wedding and attempt to have sex in the bathroom, alley and supply closet at work before giving up and just having sex in their own apartment, in their own bed. It’s not as crazy as Hitchcock’s story, but it’s still pretty hot and the sex is as stupid good as it’s always been.

She really thinks it’s worked this time. She’s got the sickness, the sore boobs, her period is late...

Jake runs to the store to get a new pregnancy test and a cute onesie he saw and just _had_ to buy. They’re both positively vibrating as she chugs a litre of water, pees on the stick and sets the timer on her phone.

It’s second nature to them now, waiting for the test to say _Pregnant_.

Amy paces the width of the bathroom.

Jake twists his wedding ring on his finger.

They share apprehensive smiles.

When the timer finally goes off, Amy picks up the test, feeling hopeful for the first time in months.

Her face falls. “Negative.”

“We’ll try again next month,” he promises as she throws it into the trash. She is so sick of hearing _next month, next month, next month_. She wants a baby _now_.

Which is why the decision to stop trying is so painful.

She doesn’t want to stop. All she wants is to see Jake holding a baby -- their baby. But nothing is working and the last six months have been so difficult, a literal rollercoaster of excitement, disappointment, excitement, disappointment. And Amy has never liked rollercoasters.

She feels guilty, like it’s her fault they haven’t got pregnant yet, like she’s just bad at making babies. She confides in Rosa about it and she knows Jake talks to Charles, their friends both coming to the conclusion that as much as they want this for them too (and Charles really, really does), they’re clearly exhausted and sad and stressed and maybe taking a break would be a good thing.

So she tells Jake she’s done trying.

It’s hard enough to walk away from him, from their dream of having a family, and even harder to go to Hitchcock’s party and pretend like everything’s fine when it’s not fine. Everything is garbage, just like Holt said at Captain Dozerman’s funeral.

But then Jake joins her at the bar with a slice of cake with a heart on top and is all sweet and understanding and the best husband she could have possibly asked for. He tells her that they’re already a family and whether the universe wants them to be just a two or a whole squad of Peraltas, he’ll be happy either way.

“I love you,” she says after he finishes his speech.

“I love you,” he responds.

They lean in for a kiss. It starts off sweet, gentle, heating up when she realises just how much she’s missed this, kissing him without the constant pressure of needing to conceive. It feels nice.

“Should we go?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, without question.

They use their final pregnancy test a couple of weeks later. It’s still negative, but it doesn’t feel like the end of the world anymore. They’ve taken down the command center, getting their living room back, their morning and evening routines are so much shorter now they’re not taking all the vitamins and sex is considerably more enjoyable. Sure, they still want kids one day -- they both smile wistfully every time they pass a stroller in the street and volunteer for regular babysitting duties -- and when the universe finally grants them a beautiful baby of their own, they will no doubt be the happiest parents this side of the East River, but for right now they’re OK, just the two of them, their little family, their own slice of perfection.


	2. 7x08: The Takeback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hUGe thanks to johanna for helping me with this chapter when I had a lil breakdown half way through

When he approaches her desk mid-afternoon with a decaf coffee and the white chocolate chip cookies she’s been craving from the bakery across town, she knows he’s either a) broken something, b) wants something or c) has bad news. She narrows her eyes suspiciously, detecting an excited bounce in his step which can only mean it’s b _and_ c; he wants something she’s not going to like. 

“Hey, babe,” he tries to play it cool, clearing a butt-sized space on her desk on which to sit. “I come bearing gifts.”

“What do you want, Peralta?” She cuts to the chase. 

“Damn it, you know me too well,” he mutters. “OK, so, here’s the thing: Doug Judy’s gettin’ married. He invited me to his Bachelor Party this weekend and I know he’s a criminal, Ames, but I really wanna go. Like, so bad. Would you be cool with that?”

She conjures up a mental pro and con list. On one hand, Doug Judy is The Pontiac Bandit, known felon, committer of God knows how many crimes, an overall bad dude. On the other, he’s Jake’s friend, singer of the smush songs CD in the glove box of their car that they always forget to take out, giver of the Le Creuset pot she adores. He’s always been nice to her and—.

“Sarge?” Gary interrupts her decision-making process with a quick question about a perp he just brought in, snapping her back to reality. She’s a Police Sergeant, her job is to serve and protect the city they call home and as much as she loves cooking her mom’s beef casserole recipe in Judy’s awesome wedding gift, she has a responsibility to bring him in. 

“I’m sorry, babe. I just think it’s a bad idea.”

His face falls, his disappointment coming through loud and clear. 

“What were you expecting me to say? Ignore the million arrest warrants out on this guy, many of them submitted by _you_ , so you can drink beer and go to strip clubs?”

“You’re right,” he sighs. “You’re obviously right. Man, being good at your job _sucks_.” 

She nods in agreement. “Remember last month when I had to shut that binder store down for running a secret drug dealing operation out back?”

“How could I forget? You cried for three days straight.”

“They had the best binder collection I’ve ever seen!” 

(It was actually what was so fishy about it. In four trips to buy pregnancy binders, she hadn’t seen any of the founding members of the Brooklyn Binder Babes blog — Mary Sue, Catherine, Margaret or Jane — once. And there’s _no way_ a stationery start-up would attract such long queues without their recommendation. It was a pretty easy solve from there). 

“The point is, you can’t go to a criminal’s Bachelor Party.” She pats his hand. “You’ll just have to come maternity clothes shopping with me instead. None of my jeans fit me anymore.”

“As much as I would _love_ to, you can take Kylie. I’m going to the party.”

“What?” She double-takes. “Jake, did you not listen to what I literally just said? We’re cops. We cannot be friends with criminals.”

“But we can be friends with informants who have helped us catch numerous, even bigger, more dangerous criminals,” he says with that look on his face, the one he gets when he finds a loophole that he can use to his advantage. She recognises it from home videos Karen has shown her where, instead of tidying his room like she asked him to, seven year old Jake shoves everything under his bed and carries on enacting a police chase with his race cars. “Captain Holt has given him immunity before, so _technically_ I should be able to go party it up with him in Miami!”

“Wait... It’s in Miami? Miami... Florida?”

It’s a stupid question, she knows. Of course he means Miami, Florida. It’s just... they both promised on the flight home that they would never, ever go back there. After everything that happened with Figgis and not knowing if they’d ever see each other again, a statewide travel ban seemed a good way to put it all behind them, focus on all their future moments together, not on all the moments they missed.

“This isn’t like last time,” he reassures her. “It’s only for a weekend and then I’ll be coming straight home for snuggles with you and —,” he lowers his voice to a whisper because they haven’t told anyone she’s pregnant yet, “ _the baby_.”

Her eyes fill with tears and she bites her lip so hard to stop them overflowing in front of all her uniformed officers. It’s pretty clear that he wants to go and she never wants to be one of them wives who control their husbands’ every move. All she wants is for him to be happy. And if going to Doug Judy’s Bachelor Party makes him happy, he should go, no matter how much she hates the entire state of Florida. She agrees, on one condition: “You have to text me hourly updates to let me know that you’re still alive.”

“Don’t I text you constantly anyway?” 

“I guess so,” she sniffs. 

He lifts her chin so she’s looking him in the eyes. “I promise I’ll come home safe, Ames. That’s a Peralta guarantee.”

“You better,” she warns, tears suddenly flowing down her face at the thought of him not coming home, not being there to watch _Property Brothers_ with her, not raising their baby and proving to everyone what a great dad he will be. 

Used to her extra strength pregnancy hormones shifting her emotions from 0 to 100 faster than John McClane can say “Yippie-Ki-Yay, motherfucker”, he pulls her into a tight hug, careful not to crush the precious cargo that is behind said mood swings.

He strokes her hair and whispers that he’ll be home before she knows it and that nothing, not even the worst state in the country, will tear him away from her. 

When it’s time for him to leave, she follows him out to the street and, after a brief argument over the fact he packed his bag before he OK’ed the trip with her and another hormone-induced cry when his cab shows up, reluctantly waves goodbye. 

True to his word, he texts her before the car is even out of sight. _Miss you already_ 😘.

* * *

Her phone buzzes periodically throughout the rest of the day. 

In a meeting with Holt and Terry: _flying on mark cuban’s dope ass private plane!!!!!_ ✈️

Cooking dinner: _florida is HOT (not as hot as u babe, dont worry)_

Doing her crossword in bed: _g’night ames, g’night baby, love u both SO MUCH_

She smiles, tells him she loves him too and braces herself for the barrage of drunk texts and selfies coming her way. 

* * *

Sleeping without him _sucks_. The bed is cold, her pregnancy pillow is not as good of a cuddle buddy and she tosses and turns all night worrying about him, where he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s safe. 

Her eyes finally slip shut around 1 am when her phone buzzes. Again. And again. And again. 

She tries to ignore him, bury her head under her pillow and go back to sleep, but the messages keep coming thick and fast. She groans, giving up and unlocking her phone. 

There are 47 new messages from him. 

Forty-seven. 

Her initial annoyance at being woken up quickly disappears as she scrolls through the thread. He’s mostly sent her random, meaningless emojis and keysmashes, interspersed with the odd “I love you”, “you’re my best friend” and “I’m thinking about you” that warm her heart. He mentions something about their proposal, about crying with Doug Judy, which obviously makes her cry too. 

( _Dumb pregnancy hormones_ ).

By the time she reaches the bottom, he’s sent her 10 more. 

She decides for her sake — and the sake of all of her officers who would have to deal with a tired, emotional pregnant lady — to turn off her phone and reply to him in the morning. 

She returns her phone to her nightstand, settles back into a comfortable position and closes her eyes. 

She lies motionless for what feels like hours, unable to fall asleep. She tries the breathing technique her brother David brags about _constantly_ , counting sheep like little Matthew, even reciting police codes like Teddy used to go to sleep after sex. Nothing works. She’s still awake. 

She turns her phone back on to see what Jake’s up to now, only to see his messages ended abruptly with a caterpillar emoji over an hour ago. 

She immediately panics, dialling 911 into her phone. 

Her thumb hovers over the green call button. 

She’s heard thousands of crazy operator call stories, frequently reminded the general population to only call in a genuine emergency and watched the YouTube compilations for fun. She deletes the number, positive that if she told an operator her husband was missing because she hadn’t heard from him while he’s at a Bachelor Party, she’s positive she would be added to those videos. 

In an attempt to stop her spiral, she contemplates the possible scenarios in which his constant texts would cease. 

Scenario 1: He’s living in the moment and has put his phone away (something she _has_ been encouraging him to do lately to reduce his screen time)

Scenario 2: He’s very drunk and has completely forgotten about his promise

Scenario 3: He used up all his battery texting her and his phone has died 

Scenario 4: He’s fallen asleep (although a quick check of Trudy Judy’s insta reveals the party is _very_ much still in full flow)

Scenario 5: Judy’s criminal buddies have killed him and thrown his body into the ocean

Once the thought pops into her head, no amount of squeezing her eyes shut will make the image go away. 

_Holt giving an emotional eulogy about wearing ties and being an amazing detective/genius._

_Some rookie taking over his desk._

_The sympathetic looks when she tells all the other moms in baby group that her husband died._

Usually Jake is there to hold her when her nightmares get bad. She rolls over, expecting to see his kind eyes and soft smile, the untouched side of his bed only serving to make her cry harder. 

She can’t lose him. Not yet. Not until they’re old and grey, and maybe not even then. She spent so long denying her feelings for her dorky partner, rueing every missed opportunity to be together, and when they finally, finally took the plunge, she had never been happier. She can’t lose him yet. They have so much more life left to live. 

She can’t lose him because he promised her he would come home safe. He _guaranteed_ it. 

She clings onto the tiny grain of hope like one might cling onto a raft in the middle of the ocean. 

He would never break a Peralta guarantee.

* * *

Her phone finally buzzes again an hour later. 

From: Unknown

_Ames, it’s me, Jake. Judy’s buddies found out I’m a cop + destroyed my phone. So sorry I couldn’t text before. Hope you didn’t worry too much, although I know you probably haven’t slept. You can stop worrying now. I’m safe. Love you + see you tomorrow._

_Love you too_ , she responds, yawning as she places the phone back on the side table. 

Relieved that he’s OK, and exhausted from all the worrying, she falls into the easiest sleep she’s ever had. 

* * *

Before she knows it, it’s the next afternoon, Jake’s keys are turning in the lock, he’s dropping his holdall on the floor and rushing to her side to kiss her all over her face. 

“I missed you too,” she laughs, kissing him properly. 

“Sorry it took so long — Doug and Trudy made me fly commercial —.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”

“I’m never leaving you two again,” he swears. 

“You’ll have to leave us eventually to go to the bathroom and stuff,” she points out, raking her fingers through the unruly curls that she _so_ hopes their baby will inherit. “Just don’t go back there.”

A solemn understanding passes over his face and he nods. “Never again. Not even if our kid wants to go to Disney World. We’ll take them to the California one instead.”

“Smort,” she says, stealing his line and in an instant, that familiar grin is back. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

A dozen memories flood back, of oldies in short shorts and shuffleboard and Doug Judy getting away again. Of _noice_ and _smort_ and saying “I love you” for the very first time. Her eyes fill with tears — dumb pregnancy hormones strike again — as she buries her face in his shoulder. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and lifting her bridal style to carry her to their room. He places her carefully onto the mattress and flops down next to her. 

She snuggles into him, eyes closing once more. “Did we even get an invite to the wedding?”

“Not even close,” he sighs.

“Damn it. I would’ve loved to see that trainwreck.”

“You and me both, babe. You and me both.”


	3. 7x09: Dillman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by amy putting her hand up when holt asked who jake had pranked recently

“Bath’s ready,” he shouts from the bathroom, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as she shouts back that she’s on her way.

It’s stupid, but hiding the pregnancy from the rest of the squad and her very nosy family who can sense when someone is pregnant from 50 miles away has resulted in a Very Stressed Out Amy Santiago who is constantly braiding and re-braiding her hair. He’s been trying his best to make her laugh for the last _week_ but none of his dumb pranks are working. And making her laugh is supposed to be the thing he’s best at.

He stuck a picture of John McClane inside their air vent, gave her a 1 inch piece of lettuce and half a slice of cucumber when she asked for a _little_ salad with her lunch and delivered 4 bags of flour to the precinct instead of flowers.

Nada. 

How can he claim to be the Prankmaster General if he can’t even make _his own wife_ laugh?

He pulled a full Amy and researched the crap out of good pranks to pull on your wife that won’t end in divorce (some dudes on the internet _really_ need to stop pretending to cheat), screenshotted some of his faves for future reference and decided on the best prank for tonight.

She’d been complaining about her bad back and swollen ankles and general pregnancy-related exhaustion all day so when he suggested having a bath together, she happily accepted, calling him the best husband ever.

(True to his title, he fully intends to run her a proper bath after the prank because she really does deserve it. She’s a badass, pregnant police sergeant who hasn’t taken a single day off work despite their fetus making her throw up every morning).

“Hey, babe,” he grins when she joins him in the bathroom already naked. He loves her face and her boobs and her butt (his love of her butt is _very_ well-documented), but her growing baby bump is definitely his new favourite part of her. It’s equal parts insane and _so cool_ that there’s a baby inside her. _Their_ baby. He’ll never get over it.

“Hey,” she responds with a tired smile, pulling back the shower curtain. She pauses, assessing the tub like it’s a crime scene with yellow numbered evidence markers all over the place, except instead of blood it’s toast. Toast in the soap dish, toast all round the edge of the tub, toast in the tub with his NYPD rubber ducky sitting on top. “What is this?” She deadpans, spinning around.

“A toasty bath.” A beat. “Get it? _Toasty_.”

“I got it.”

“Then why aren’t you laughing?” He pouts.

“ _Maybe_ because you wasted an entire loaf of bread on this. _Maybe_ because I was craving toast and now I can’t eat any. _Maybe_ because I’m pregnant and exhausted and was looking forward to a nice relaxing bath with my husband before he did _this_.” She waves her hand disparagingly at the tub.

“I’m sorry, Ames,” he says, his tone sincere. “It’s just - you’ve been so stressed out lately and I just thought that if I could make you laugh, you’d feel a bit better.”

“Oh.” Her expression softens. “That’s actually super sweet.”

“I’m sorry I wasted all the bread,” he apologises again because he’s been trying this whole “Responsible Adult” thing in preparation for being a dad and rendering an entire loaf of bread inedible is pretty much the opposite of what a responsible adult would do. Kevin would never be caught doing such a thing, for example.

“You’ll just have to go out and buy me some after you run me a proper bath.”

“Of course,” he agrees. He learnt very early on in her pregnancy - pretty much the day after they found out - to never get in the way of a pregnant lady and her cravings. Ever since, he’s bought her ice cream, Polish food and grapes ( _so many grapes_ ) whenever she wants. He wishes her cravings wouldn’t kick in at 1am, but he’d do anything for her.

He guiltily removes the toast, drops it in the bin and turns on the faucet. Once full, he helps her into the tub.

“Toasty in there, Ames?” He asks as he gets naked, too.

She rolls her eyes. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You _looooove_ me.”

“Just shut up and get in here, Peralta.”

“Not until you admit that you love me and my dumb jokes.”

“Fine,” she huffs in annoyance. “I guess I love you or whatever.”

He smirks, jumping in the bath and creating a small tidal wave. “Love you too,” he responds, leaning in to kiss her -

She splashes him back, giggling at the surprised, wide-eyed look on his face. “Gotcha, babe.”

“You are in so much trouble,” he growls, tickling her.

“Stop - stop - Jake -"

“Not stopping.”

She squirms and laughs and more water lands on their bathroom floor, but neither of them could care less.

She’s finally relaxed and his mission is complete. He may no longer be the Prankmaster General, but he’s the best husband to Amy Santiago and that’s the coolest title he could ever have.


	4. 7x10: Admiral Peralta

She wakes up at 2am needing to pee.

She’s been waking up needing to pee _a lot_ lately.

It’s like their baby has no respect for her sleeping pattern, perfectly honed over the years to maximise productivity, while still fitting in the full 8 hours of sleep needed a day. Their baby doesn’t care about the 8 hour recommendation, he laughs in the face of scientists. With the bad back and heart burn and constant kick, kick, kicking of her bladder, she’s averaging 4.7. She thought babies didn’t start keeping you up all night until they were born but, oh, how wrong she was.

She pats her husband to wake him up and come keep her company. If she’s awake because of their baby, then damn it, he’s going to be awake, too. But he’s not there, leaving her hand awkwardly patting a bare mattress.

“Jake?” She murmurs groggily, sitting up and switching on her bedside lamp. She’s half-expecting him to be sitting in the armchair playing Mario Party on his Switch (he has become a little bit addicted in the last few months and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s found him trying to beat Wario in the early hours of the morning) or have left a note beside her bed that he had a lead on a case and needed to go in with a scribbled ‘love you’ underneath and a lopsided heart. The armchair is empty, but there’s a light on down the hall and since there’s no way she forgot to turn it off before bed (she triple checks), she figures that it must be Jake.

Forgetting the whole reason why she woke up in the first place, she grabs Jake’s hoodie from the floor for warmth and pads into their living-kitchen-dining area. It’s the open plan-ness that made her fall in love with the apartment upon first visit and submit all her paperwork as soon as she was out the door. It’s the open plan-ness that would make the Property Brothers proud and the dumb people who go on that show foam at the mouth with jealousy. It’s the open plan-ness that allows her to see her husband straight away, snacking on the unfinished party food.

( _Apparently_ people don’t feel like eating after a man cuts his thumb off and spurts blood everywhere. Who’d have thought?)

There’s a weird, pensive look on his face that draws her towards him.

“You OK, babe?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he responds. He pops a tomato from the salad bowl in his mouth, then another, then another.

She narrows her eyes. He _never_ eats tomatoes unless they’re in ketchup or on top of a famous Sal’s pizza. Something is wrong.

She thinks back on their day, mentally rewinding the events from waking up to the morning briefing to their private sex reveal in the break room and finding out they’re having a boy (the empty cake box and blue frosting around Scully’s mouth was very surprising indeed). They were both floating on Cloud 9 all afternoon, came home and _Zoom_ ed the entire family, falling asleep on the couch around 9.30pm because pregnancy is _exhausting_.

Nothing particularly awful stands out.

Unless...

“Are you thinking about your Grandpa?”

He’d been so excited to see him again, so excited to reunite Walter Peralta (lol) with Roger, The Admiral with the Captain. To be honest, Amy was less than impressed. He’d been nice enough to her, asked her about her job, about the baby, small talked about the weather. But he never asked her about Jake, probed about the 20 odd years of his grandson’s life that he’d missed out on. Which is frustrating because she has a lot of embarrassing stories ready to tell and a whole photo album of Jake on her phone. He couldn’t care less about Roger or Jake, storming out of the sex reveal party after calling his son a screw up and turning off his phone so they couldn’t get in contact with him. He’s a selfish dick and her husband deserves better. Still, he won’t be thinking about what a monster Walter turned out to be, he’ll be finding ways to blame himself that _yet another_ father walked out of his life _again_.

He nods silently and she leads him to the couch.

“Talk to me, Jake.”

He releases a shaky breath. “The Peralta’s are cursed.”

“With devastatingly handsome good looks?” She half-jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Because, hello, her husband is _hot_ ; she constantly overhears other women in the precinct talking about his glow up and it would be impossible to ignore the female attention he gets in bars and even just walking down the street before he scratches his face to show off his wedding band and wraps one arm proudly around his wife’s shoulders. She’s seen the pictures of a young Roger Peralta, too, and with that charm smile... she gets it.

“Thank you,” he smiles briefly, “but no. Peralta dads are cursed with terrible relationships with their sons.”

“That’s not going to be you,” she says without hesitation, without a shred of doubt.

“How do you know?” He launches into a scathing personal indictment that leaves his cheeks stinging with tears. “I’m immature, obsessed with my work, messy, always late. My dad was never around when I was a kid. I don’t even know what dads do with their sons! And what if it’s in my genes? To be a crappy dad, abandon my kid like a dozen Peralta fathers before me. Your parents still don’t think I’m good enough. You didn’t even like me at first. It only makes sense that our baby would hate me, too.”

“Woah, babe. Slow down. Let’s unpack that one at a time.” She wipes away his tears with his hoodie sleeve and squeezes his hand. “First of all, you are way more mature now than you used to be. We bought a family friendly Sedan. You read parenting books. You were eating fruit, like, two minutes ago.”

“Tomatoes are fruits?”

“ _What_? Yes, how do you not - not the point.” She shakes her head. “And so what, you enjoy your job. That’s a good thing, Jake! Do you understand how rare that is? You’re doing the thing you love while providing a decent income for our family. And besides, I’m way more obsessed than you. I have FOMOW, but that doesn’t mean I won’t love our kid more than anything. And as for the messy, late thing, if _I_ can look past it because of how much I love you, so will our son.”

“Love you, too,” he mumbles.

“Now onto your point about not knowing what dads do, that is a straight up lie and we both know it, Peralta. You’re always hanging out with Charles and Nikolaj and _Lord Knows_ Terry doesn’t shut up about all the activities he does with his girls.”

“I know what they do when _I’m_ around, but what do you do when it’s 5am and they won’t go back to sleep?” He frets. “At what age do you introduce them to _Die Hard_? In _Cry Hard With A Vengeance_ ,” he quotes the parenting book she originally bought him as a joke but has kind of become his Torah, “Bruce Willis says right away, but what if he’s not ready to understand the complex plots? What if he prefers Timothy Olyphant to William Atherton? Oh my God, what if our son doesn’t think _Die Hard_ is a Christmas movie?”

He’s spiralling and it’s a good job he’s with the only person who can truly calm him down.

“I think Bruce Willis is just trying to promote his franchise and that we’ll be watching more _Paw Patrol_ than _Die Hard_ for the next few years, babe, but I’m sure when he is old enough, he will love the movies as much as you.”

“Right,” he agrees, “you’re totally right. Action thrillers aren’t very baby friendly. I’ll just watch it on mute with subtitles.”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling in the corners. She loves him _so much_. Which segways them nicely onto his final two points.

“My parents _do_ love you. Sure, they’re critical, but that’s just the way they are. They’re the same way to all of us. My mom complains to everyone she meets about how I can’t cook, how Tony hasn’t settled down and made her any beautiful grandbabies yet, even Perfect David faces her wrath when he goes a week without phoning her. If the worst thing my mom has to say about you is that you’re below average in height, you’re doing OK. And as for me apparently not liking you at first, I _did_ like you.”

He furrows his brow. “But you said you found me annoying and difficult to be around.”

“Yet I didn’t ask to switch desks, continued working cases with you and went to Shaw’s whenever I was invited.” She stares at him pointedly. “If I really found you difficult to be around, I wouldn’t have stayed. I thought you were cute and funny and good at your job and yeah, you were annoying too, but,” she shrugs, “it never put me off.”

“So what you’re saying is that you had a crush on me first,” he grins.

“No. You _obviously_ had a crush on me back then, too. What I’m saying is that I love you, our son loves you and you’re going to be a great dad.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “My dad said the same thing. About our son loving me.”

“He’s right,” she replies. “I feel him kick every time you get home from work, every time you sing to Taylor Swift in the car, every time I mention your name. Why didn’t you believe him?”

“I don’t know, still nervous about the curse, I guess.” He twists his wedding band on his finger.

Amy bites her lip. “Are you not excited about us having a boy?”

She has to ask. His excitement looked genuine in the break room, but it’s no secret that he was hoping for a girl. A mini-Amy, he said. While she’s always been more accustomed to boys considering the Santiago’s have, like, a million of them, Jake couldn’t get over the image of a little girl in dresses and doing ballet and with long, dark hair that he eventually learns to braid.

“Of course I am,” he’s quick to assure her. “Stupid excited. Never been more excited for anything. Not even the Ninja Turtles reboot. But still... nervous.” He rubs his hand over his face, muffling his voice. “Everyone is assuming what kind of dad I’m going to be. Whether I’m going to be good at it or not. To be fair, the only person who doubted me is that murderer I arrested last week, obviously not my biggest fan. Everyone else is convinced I can do it. What if I can’t? What if I’m genetically wired to be a bad dad? What if I disappoint you and our baby and Charles who has been dreaming about this forever?”

“Jake,” she softens her voice, pulling his hand away from his face, “the fact you are so worried about being a bad dad _proves_ that you will not be one. Nor could you ever disappoint us.”

“But you’re my _wife_. You _have_ to say that.”

“I would never have married you and become your wife if I thought you were the kind of person who could abandon your kid,” she promises him. “You have been perfect so far, dealing with all the vitamins and over-scheduled sex and washing my clothes when I sweat through them and holding my hair back when I’m being sick. You’ve been to every doctor’s appointment, read every binder, bought me every weird food craving. You hang out with the bump every night, talking and singing to it. I know you’re going to be a great dad, Jake, because you already _are_ one.”

She kisses him and it’s soft and tender and filled with love, only interrupted by the kick, kick, kicking of their son.

“Hey,” Jake says in his best authoritative dad voice/John McClane dealing with German terrorists voice (he’s been practising in front of the mirror following Bruce’s advice), pointing a warning finger at the bump. “I’m going to kiss your mom as much as I want, Peralta. I loved her first.”

Amy giggles, stroking her fingers through Jake’s unruly curls. His bedhead is always wild and it’s maybe her favourite thing in the entire world. She silently sends a message of her own to their son to inherit his dad’s hair. And eyes. And handsome smile.

He kicks again as if to say ‘OK, mom’.

And then she _really_ needs to pee.


	5. 7x11: Valloweaster

Her Valentine’s starts pretty great, her husband treating her to coffee, heart-shaped pancakes and a card that reads _I’m going to make you moan like Myrtle._

(Despite the message on the front, there is a very sweet paragraph inside about how much he loves her and how smart and pretty she is and about how she makes him feel good about the world and his place in it. When she gets to the sentence about how difficult the last few months have been, he thanks her, says that he couldn’t have gone through it with anyone else and reminds her that they are a family - no matter what).

He proudly displays his card from her (a drawing of Hans Gruber falling from Nakatomi Plaza with the words _I’ve fallen for you_ ) on his nightstand and lays out his elaborate plans for the rest of the day: quick stop at home after work to shower and change, dinner at a fancy Manhattan restaurant and then, when they’re a little wine drunk and their inhibitions are lowered, salsa dancing.

She pops a piece of pancake in her mouth, chewing slowly as she debates the pros and cons of telling him they can’t do any of that. He will be _crushed_. He made the reservations last year, added it to their joint calendar and sticks new post-its on the fridge daily counting down to the Valentine’s Day Of The Century. They clearly both need the distraction from eating healthily and monitoring temperature and overly scheduled sex and referring to said sex as _uterine deposits_ and doctor’s appointments, fertility drugs, negative test after negative test and questions from everyone they know. But the heist is due to restart today - Cheddar had passed the gem stones, they had been sterilised (twice!) and everyone is usually too loved up, or sad, to be out committing crimes, making it the perfect holiday for a heist.

Except when you had plans that will have to be cancelled.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she apologises after revealing the news, kissing away his disappointed frown. “We can always reschedule. February 15th can be the most romantic day of the year if we want it to be.”

He doesn’t respond, but she recognises the look on his face from when he’s coming up with a backstory for one of his undercover characters or an explanation as to why the dishwasher is overflowing when there are still dirty dishes all over the kitchen. His expression changes, his lips twisting into a smile, his eyes sparkling - he has a solution.

“What is it, Jake?” She deadpans.

“Surprise,” is his only answer as he wolfs the rest of his pancakes and asks her to shower with him.

Thank God she washed her hair last night otherwise they would’ve most certainly been late to work.

“Morning lovebirds,” Charles says in a singsong voice as soon as the elevator doors open, firing a million questions at them about what they bought each other, how the pancakes tasted (he must’ve got lessons from Charles, which makes the gesture that much sweeter) and whether they’ve already conceived a Valentine’s baby from their love.

Rosa punches him in the arm for them as she walks past.

Of all days to be handcuffed to her husband’s best friend, it _had_ to be Valentine’s Day.

She learns way too many disgusting details about his sex life; he lists the sexiest restaurants in New York from A-Z (his personal favourite is Dining in the Dark that just opened in Parkslope, the blindfolds enhancing _all_ the senses, he explains with a smirk), recommends the best foods to eat off a lover’s body and reads all his texts to Genevieve OUT. LOUD.

Amy shudders at their increasingly gross pet names, trying to focus her attention on Jake from across the bullpen. He’s kept coy about what he has planned for her, her only clue that it will be “hella romantic.”

(She read his lips).

Charles puts his phone away (thank _God_ , she was moments from pulling a Terry and crushing the thing with her bare hands) and they go over their plan once more. Jake and Holt will argue, thanks to her _excellent_ idea to rig the teams, they will mess up and Charles will use his dainty fingers to steal the gems from Bill’s pocket.

Then there are flowers everywhere, the precinct filled with the sweet scent of a billion roses, and in the chaos Scully steals (and _swallows_ ) the damn gems.

They end up back at Cheddar’s vet because all the emergency rooms are filled with skeletons and clowns and Harley Quinns having their stomachs pumped and apparently Scully’s body resembles closer to that of a human-sized giraffe with his big ol’ heart and leathery skin than a human-human. The vet reveals the gems are indeed inside of him and the heist is postponed until Easter.

“Hey,” Jake says, grabbing her hand to hold her back as everyone else leaves the surgery. “We’re friends again, right?”

“Yes, babe,” she assures him. Kylie thinks it’s weird how they can go from trash talking back to “babe” and heart eyes with the flick of a switch, but that’s just the way they’ve always been. They’re competitive. They will do anything to win. And they love each other. “ _Best_ friends.”

“Awesome,” he grins.

“So, _best friend_ , what do we do now?”

He feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“What’s your big Valentine’s Day surprise? I know you have one.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ames. We’ve missed our reservation. I just need to go back to work to pick up my bag.”

“Mm-hmm. Sure.” She eyes him suspiciously, following him to the parking lot and their car and laughing when he turns on a playlist of the Most Romantic Taylor Swift Songs for the drive back to the precinct.

She plays along, acts like nothing is happening, like she doesn’t see the nervous tapping of his hand against the steering wheel or the constant lighting up of his phone with new encrypted messages. He’s even changed his passcode from their wedding date so she can’t unlock it.

When they get to the Nine-Nine, all the Valentine’s decorations have gone, probably removed by the night shift detectives who cannot _stand_ their day shift counterparts, and Jake leads her to the evidence lock-up.

Her thoughts inevitably drift to HalloVeen, to becoming a two time champ and Jake Peralta’s fiancée. To the way he told her to “read the inscription on that there belt”, the way he was already down on one knee when she realised what was happening, the way he smiled when he managed to surprise her. To his heart eyes as he listed the things he loves about her and slid on the ring and kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before.

She doesn’t know how anyone can argue anything other than her winning that day.

He opens the door and there are hearts _everywhere_ , all the flowers from the delivery guys, a table and two chairs constructed from evidence boxes, a bottle of pinot gris and a take-out bag from her favourite Polish place.

She’s speechless.

“I got Bill to set it up,” he explains, fiddling with his police badge. “I figured if we couldn’t make it to the fancy restaurant, I’d bring the fancy restaurant to you. Kind of. I mean, it’s still a police precinct and the floor is kind of sticky and we’re surrounded by evidence from murder cases, but-.”

She cuts him off with a kiss. “Babe, it’s _perfect_.”

“Really?”

“Really. It’s so romantic. And this is kind of our place, right? Where we had our first for realz kiss, where we got engaged.” She pauses. “Also the flowers really mask the bad smell.”

He breaks into laughter, shaking his head. “I love you so much.”

“I love you so much, too,” she replies. “Now can we eat? I had to listen to Charles talk about food all day and I’m _starving_.”

“Of course, m’lady.” He pulls out a “chair”, ever the gentleman, and kisses the top of her head before sitting on his own stack of boxes. He pours the wine into their NYPD mugs and holds his up in the air. “To us, to Fake Charles, to pierogis.”

“To pierogis,” she cheers, clinking their mugs together.

(And, for the record, when they get home, he sticks to his card’s promise, a very happy ending to Valentine’s Day indeed).

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments mean the world


End file.
